Thanks
by TheDevilYouDon't
Summary: He doesn't even think about it, just instinctively kneels down beside her and holds her hair out of the way, awkwardly patting her back with his free hand, trying to comfort her as best as he can. Andrea/Daryl.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, obviously. If I did, there'd be a few noticeable changes, I'm afraid.

**A/N: **I'm a little out of my element in writing this, to be honest. But, as a huge fan of _The Walking Dead_ (and Andrea/Daryl, obviously), I figured I'd try my hand at it.

This is set just after the whole gang gets together and they set up camp by the quarry.

**:::**

**Thanks**

_(or five things Daryl really doesn't have time for)_

**:::**

The blond girl—the one that bunks with her sister and the old guy in the RV—the older one—the one with the curly hair and that glint in her eye like she wants people to think she's content and trying really hard to be completely happy on the outside—gets sick on the fourth or fifth day after they set up by the quarry.

Daryl feels bad because apparently it's food poisoning, but that's all anyone wants to talk about and it hurts his head because he's still a little hung over—Merle had convinced him to drink some, _ a lot_, of alcohol the night before that he'd apparently been hiding for a while.

_(he'd only agreed to it because he really wanted to feel like things were normal and like maybe this would all blow over in a few weeks)_

He's sitting on the grass near the RV, trying his hardest not to throw up again, when the old guy and the blond girl's sister come through the door, closing it behind them. They look around for a minute, talking in hushed voices, until the old guy spots Daryl on the ground and nods in his direction, saying something to the girl.

He knows he's about to get wrangled into something when they head his way.

"Hey, Daryl," the old guy says.

Daryl grumbles something—anything—in response and tries to remember their names.

"You might have heard that Andrea is sick."

Andrea. Not "the blond girl". _Andrea._

He grumbles again.

"Well, we were hoping that, since you won't be going hunting today, we would be able to fishing. But we need someone to check in on her every so often while we're gone." He can see where this is going. "So, we were…uh…" He pauses, looking like he's rethinking asking after all.

"—wondering if you could do it," the younger girl finishes for him, giving the old guy a look that Daryl can't interpret with his vision swimming the way it is.

He wonders if he could get out of it, but his brain is still sluggish from the pounding in his head and he can't think of how to do it cleverly. So he ends up just nodding and saying, "Er…sure, yeah. Guess so," even though he really doesn't have time for something like that.

It's kind of his fault, anyway—if he hadn't been so stupid the night before, he would be able to go hunting and not have to leave the group to depend on the old guy and Andrea's sister to catch supper.

"Thank you, Daryl," the old guy says with a genuine smile that bends his bushy eyebrows above his shiny eyes. Andrea's sister smiles too and Daryl nods because he wants them to stop looking at him like he's God's gift to the freakin' world and leave already.

He watches them go and sighs, looking up at the sky, thinking he might be sick again. Time passes and, with it, his nausea, so he decides to go check on her because he was stupid enough to agree to it.

The problem is he's never really had much interaction with Andrea. He's not sure what to say to someone he knows well when they're sick, let alone to someone he barely knows is sick when he's supposed to look after them. And, sure, he was put on watch with Andrea two nights ago, but they hadn't talked at all. They'd just sat at the top of the RV in silence.

It had been cold that night, which was surprising for everyone, and it had made the hairs on his arms stand up. He had a jacket on, but the cold had leaked in anyway, and he'd turned a little in his seat and caught her in the corner of his eye. He doesn't really know why, but he'd been warm then, almost instantly. He remembers that, but he hasn't really thought about it since it happened, because he really doesn't have time for blond girls who can warm him up like that.

So there's no doubt that looking after her will be awkward—what with their serious lack of communication in the short time they've known each other. But he pulls himself to his feet anyway and ignores the dull pounding behind his eyes as walks over to the RV and gets in.

He's not really sure what he imagined it being like, but he didn't expect the RV to be how it is. It's crowded and smells like open air, with a book-marked paperback on the table by the window, and the blinds drawn so that shadows fill up any open space there might have been otherwise.

And then the door in the back opens and a hunched over figure—Andrea, he assumes—darts through it and into another room to side, which he guesses is the bathroom. He hears the click of porcelain and then there's a quiet retching noise and the pounding in his head is gone. And he really still doesn't have time for unhappy/trying to be content blond girls who get food poisoning at the end of the world and get rid of his headache in less than a second.

He frowns and he goes in after her—because that's what he's supposed to do, right?—walking between the counter and the table to get to the bathroom. She's on her knees in front of the toilet, hands clutching the sides as she heaves into it. He doesn't even think about it, just instinctively kneels down beside her and holds her hair out of the way, awkwardly patting her back with his free hand, trying to comfort her to the best of his ability.

When she finishes, she flushes the toilet, closes the lid and rests her forehead against it. He releases her hair, but keeps his hand on her back, even though he's not really sure why. She looks at him after a minute or two and he tries to smile at her reassuringly, even though he can't remember deciding to do so, and it kind of looks like she wants to cry.

He stands back up a few minutes later and holds out a hand, which she takes, so he can help her to her feet. She clutches at him for support and his arm goes around her waist as he helps her back into the bedroom. She lies down on the bed and pulls the blanket over herself with shaking hands, while he stands beside the bed, shifting his weight and looking around the room, unsure of what to do now that she doesn't need his help.

He spots an ugly painting of a redheaded girl and a puppy on the wall and frowns at it, before spotting an even uglier painted of an Amish buggy in the snow. "S'got kind of a weird taste in paintings, doesn't he?" he says, looking between the two of them before looking down at her. She looks up at the paintings and smiles a little,

_(it's fake, though, because it doesn't reach her eyes)_

and he wonders if he really has time for this; for—okay—really cute blond girls whose smiles are always fake, and all he wants to do is make her smile for real.

Still, he says, "Really brightens up the paneling," in a joking voice and she laughs weakly when he rolls his eyes at the wood paneling on the walls overdramatically.

"Yeah," she says quietly a few moments later. "Amy's not a fan of Dale's choice in art, either."

And now he's got names to put with the faces.

He shrugs and gives her a little half-smile. "She's not wrong."

She laughs quietly again, presses her head further into the pillow and doesn't respond. Her eyes close and he thinks she might fall asleep, which leaves him with a choice; he can stay and watch her sleep, risking her thinking he's a creep, or he can leave, and risk her thinking he's a jerk.

He ends up sitting on the bed, between the edge of the mattress and her legs, which she moves a little to accommodate him. He's not really sure how long they sit there for, but her breathing slows down significantly after a while, and he watches her sadly, thinking of all the times he's been sick in his life and had no one to look out for him like this. Without thinking, he reaches out and takes one of her hands between both of his.

She opens her eyes and looks at him like she's kind of torn between surprise, thankfulness, and nausea, but she squeezes the fingers on his right hand and doesn't question it. Then she swallows in a way that looks like it hurts, and says in this faint voice,

_(that kind of sounds like things he's wanted for a really long time, even though he's not really positive what that means)_

"Thanks, Daryl."

He stays with her until Dale and Amy—and he knows their names now—get back with a few big trout strung together. He doesn't hear them come in, doesn't even _know _they're there, until he spots Amy in the corner of his eye, standing in the doorway and watching him. That's when he remembers that he's still holding Andrea's hand, and he quickly releases it before getting to his feet—trying his hardest not to jostle the bed and wake her up.

Amy smiles at him, but he can see in her eyes that it's teasing rather than gratuitous. "We got dinner," she says, nodding to the fish on the table as she leads the way towards the RV door.

"Yeah," he says, before adding in, "Sorry."

_(whether it's an apology for them having to go fishing or for being caught touching her sick older sister is anyone's guess)_

Amy shrugs. "It's fine. You were a little…preoccupied."

She's obviously not going to let him off easy.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on Andrea, Daryl," Dale says. He looks like he might touch him—pat his shoulder, or shake his hand—but he doesn't, so Daryl nods.

"No problem."

"I'm sure," Amy laughs.

He frowns at her and leaves before she can say anything else.

Later, Andrea joins everyone for dinner and, when she sits down between Amy and Dale, Amy shoots Daryl this look that makes him turn his eyes away. He's sitting next to Merle, and the last thing he needs is for her to start teasing him again with his brother around.

He makes sure not to say anything, and is especially careful not to look at Andrea while he eats. Merle ignores him for the most part, which he's even more grateful for. He doesn't really want to have to explain his behavior—especially because he doesn't really understand it himself.

The guy who used to be a cop—he thinks his name is Shane—takes watch, and climbs to the top of the RV with a gun slung over his shoulder. The brunette lady who came with him and her boy clean up what remains of dinner and Merle shoves past Daryl on his way to their tent.

Daryl helps the boy put out the fire before he heads in the same direction as his brother. He moves slowly, though, head lowered as he watches Dale, Andrea, and Amy heading towards the RV.

Andrea looks over at him while Dale is talking to Amy, and Daryl wants to look away and pretend he wasn't watching her. He's frozen, though—paralyzed by her gaze—but it doesn't matter anyway because she smiles at him and it actually reaches her eyes this time.

"Goodnight, Daryl," he hears, and he looks over at Dale, who said it.

He nods to him. "G'night," he returns, smiling at Andrea one last time before heading off.

As he's walking away, he hears Amy say something in a surprised voice that starts with the words, "I think he was—" but he doesn't hear the rest.

_(he can pretty much assume that the last word was "blushing" because he can practically feel the heat radiating from his face)_

Merle's asleep in the tent by the time he slips in, so he quietly takes off his shoes and lies down on the opposite end of the tent. He looks at the roof of the tent as he waits for sleep to come, concentrating on clearing these confusing thoughts from his head, because he really, really doesn't have the time for beautiful blond girls—or friends, or whatever they are now—who make him feel like _that_.

_**fin**_


End file.
